Blindness
by Save the Rave
Summary: Ending up in the hands of demons never ends nicely, but this particular time, things get nasty when the demon who traps the brothers apprenticed under Alastair once upon a time. Oneshot. A bit of Destiel on the side.


The world around him had been sheathed in an inky black darkness that no light was capable of penetrating, and the pain that accompanied it was mind-numbing to the point that Dean had been reduced to a silent shell of himself, head lolled to the side, arms strung above his head. Reality felt as though it had been warped, and he was no longer part of it. Sam was across the room from him, hands chained together up over his head in the same way as his. He had been approached by their attacker and he had been holding a syringe. And then blindness. The moment the darkness had hit, bringing with it the pain that had blinded him, Sam had screamed himself hoarse at their attacker - whom he could no longer see, but could feel. Each slice of the knife, each prick of a needle. He could feel it all, and it was worse now. He could smell the ammonia, the sulphurous reek of demons, his senses more heightened, compensating rather quickly for his sudden, mysterious (but he was getting an idea) lack of sight.

When they had been jumped, completely blind-sided by the monsters, Dean thought their attacker was Alastair. It had been one of the most terrifying moments of his entire life. _You're dead you son of a bitch! _he had wanted to scream. But he had been wrong; it was just another demon who happened to be in a body similar to the last one inhabited by the former master of torture. This demon had also apprenticed beneath him, many years before Dean ever had, so maybe that's why this son of a bitch was so damn good at what he was doing.

(_A well-buried, well-hidden part of Dean was sickly envious of the skills wielded by their torturer, but when the thought surfaced, it hurt almost more than whatever the hell kind of concoction he was being injected with.)_

But for now, there was silence in the room, other than the sound of his harsh, laboured breathing, his heartbeat, weak in his own ears, and the fading sound of Sam's voice telling him to wake up, that they'd get out of there. _Don't close your eyes, Dean, keep 'em open, keep your head moving around we're gonna get out of here, I promise, man, I swear to God. Just keep moving, say something, I need to know that you're okay, Dean, damn it!_ Desperation had crept into his little brother's voice, making it crack and sound watery. He was two shakes away from a panic attack and there was nothing Dean could think of saying to make him feel better, so he stayed silent, simply prompting another tirade of worried encouragement.

Sure, of course they'd Houdini their way out of the shackles binding them to their respective patches of ceiling. It was what they did. The FBI hated them for it, so that meant they were good at it. This situation was different. How was the question, and the more worrying one, how long would it take? And where the hell was Cas?

Dean was exhausted and, at this point, he was almost content to stay where he was. His body was so numb, so riddled with slices, that each new one, when they happened, didn't seem to bother him - which only angered the demon, and he'd lace him with more. It was quite a vicious circle he had been caught in, but it took too much effort to care, too much effort to be afraid.

In the middle of one of Sam's attempts at rousing his brother, Dean lifted his head, neck cracking. He groaned. "Sam, has he done anything to you?"

Silence for a moment. When Sam spoke, he sounded relieved: "No, not really, but I think he broke my nose."

"Lucky bastard. What makes you so damn special?"

"Not sure. You're a sight for sore eyes, yourself."

"Listen man, what the _hell _is going—"

Screams in the hallway. Pained, terrified screams. The sentry demons who had jumped the brothers were now either attacking some poor bastards who had stumbled upon the place, or they were the ones being attacked. And from the hissing, screeching sounds, it would seem that the band of demons were preparing to meet their maker.

(_Or maybe they had seen the Hand of God, doing the work it was meant to do.)_

"Sam, what the hell's happening? Sam!" Dean needed his brother to be his eyes, needed him to be his dead senses. Even though his limbs felt as though they were made of lead, he finally began to make a belated attempt at dislodging himself. The chains that bound him rattled, but they were holding firm. "Sammy! Talk to me, man!"

"I-I don't know! The door's still closed!" There was a pause. Everything had gone quiet out in the hallway in the main area of the warehouse. Then, sounding incredulous: "Wait, can you see? At _all_?"

Dean licked his lips. Blood coated them and he grimaced at the metallic coating it left on his tongue. It was all he had been spitting up for the past twenty minutes, maybe more, and his insides were boiling. He was stewing in his own meat suit, and a little part of him wondered if that was how demons felt when they were being exorcised.

"No, I can't." Dean felt tears at the corner of his eyes. "I'm fuckin' _blind_, man. I can't see a goddamn _thing_."

"Oh, God no, Dean—"

More shrieking cut off whatever it was Sam was going to say, but this time it was just the one, male voice. It sounded familiar. Was someone attacking their attacker? Whatever was happening, it was pure murder out there. Someone was making a slaughterhouse of the warehouse. Dean wanted to scream his frustration at not knowing what was happening and he began to tug a bit harder on the chain. The manacles around his wrist, sharply edged, sliced into his flesh, drawing more blood. He felt it roll down his forearms and it itched like a devil under his skin.

He heard chains rattling across the room, the sound of Sam grunting. He heard a muttered, "Thanks, Cas." Then, louder: "Dean, it was Cas. He's saved our asses. Again."

"I apologize at how long it took me to find you. I actually had to search for the Impala, given the fact that you are both still hidden from my sight. When neither of you answered any of your phones, and the motel you were staying in reported it has been almost two days since you were last seen, I began to assume the worst." And rightfully so. God only knew how long they would have been there for, and what other kinds of torture would have been inflicted upon him, upon them.

"Cas?" demanded Dean, voice breaking with relief. "Where are you?"

Footsteps approached him in the darkness. At the sound, Dean nearly recoiled until a warm hand was placed on the side of his face. It was so gentle despite the damage it had just inflicted, and Dean couldn't help but lean into the comforting presence. He shut his dead eyes, sighing, practically basking in the sense of security that overwhelmed him. "Dean? Can't you see me?" He sounded shocked. "What … what has happened to your eyes?"

"I don't know, but I'm fuckin' blind as a bat," sighed Dean. "Whatever he was injecting me with, it killed my eyes, man, and just about every other part of me." He hit the ground suddenly, legs buckling beneath him when his feet touched down and then ultimately giving out because they couldn't support his weight for some reason. Then he remembered: the demon had cut through the backs of his knees. Well, that explained a lot. An arm slid around his midsection and he was dragged upright. Sam. He patted his brother on the chest and then hung his head.

"It looks like he was injecting you with … minute doses of ammonia, and possibly lye," said Cas. His voice was low, and he sounded sick to his stomach. "Oh, _Dean_. If I could heal you now, I would."

"You must've fried yourself, huh? It's okay, it's just good to know that you're here. I guess I'm just lucky to be still kickin'," snorted Dean. He hissed and grimaced as Sam began moving. Pain flared through his body. He wasn't sure if luck was the proper word for it, all things considered; he'd prefer being an unconscious blob on the floor to this. Luck had never applied to him before, not unless it followed the word 'bad'.

"C'mon, we gotta get you to a hospital," muttered Sam. He sounded strained and the arm supporting him was trembling. "Can you walk?"

"Nope. Looks like you're gonna have to carry me, Sammy. Ain't this grand." Dean grinned and patted the other on the shoulder, licking his lips and grimacing again at the taste of blood.

Suddenly, the atmosphere around them melted away and was replaced by the cool outdoor air, the sounds of sirens nearby. Cas had brought them to a hospital, and when the angel spoke next, he sounded strained, exhausted. It had taken the good out of him. "There, we should be good for now. When I recuperate, I'll restore your eyesight. It might just be a few days, that's all. But I will, Dean, I promise."

"Thanks, Cas," sighed Dean. "I mean it." He could feel his legs buckling again, could feel himself sliding down, only for Sam to pull him back up. Cas placed a hand on his arm, dropped it around his shoulders, and the angel and the boy with demon blood began the slow walk to bring the blind man to the hospital.

(_In the end, in times like these, they were always the ones who pulled him back up._)


End file.
